


Livid

by orphan_account



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, angry Francis, possesive Francis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime after 'Between a Rock and a Hard Place' and 'Missing Meechum'.  It's best if you read 'Between...' to understand why Edward is troubled and Francis is livid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

President Underwood surveyed his domain and was content, the Oval Office the right and proper setting for a man of his intelligence, prudence and fortitude.

Edward Meechum, if Underwood has determined correctly, is less that content at his station to the right and back of the President’s desk, the same position the loyal Secret Service Agent maintains when Underwood is walking. Meechum spent the first two days of Underwood’s term standing near the window but that made Underwood fidgety.

“It’s not right for you to stand for hours while I sit,” he proclaimed, hushing any of the modest Meechum’s protests. “You’ll be off your two feet when I am, no ifs, ands or buts.”

A small desk and a comfortable chair were procured, post-haste.

“I’ll study, President Underwood, Sir,” Meechum exclaimed gratefully. “I’m being trained soon, Sir, so that I can accompany you and Mrs. Underwood on trips outside of the United States.”

“Very good,” replied Underwood, patting Meechum’s shoulder, as intimate a gesture either man was willing to make outside the privacy of the Residence.

But Meechum’s current dis-ease is a puzzlement, a cypher for Francis Underwood, who liked to believe that he knew practically everything, especially when his lover was concerned; why was the poor boy fidgeting, pausing at the doorway to furtively glance hither and yon before his appointed bathroom breaks?  Edward looked strained and unhappy, shifting his weight from foot to foot and frowning.

“Go. Just go!” Francis ordered, making a gentle shooing motion with his hands while rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Sir,” Edward grimly replied. The tall, lanky former-Marine barely made it out the Oval Office’s door before darting back inside, willing to face Underwood’s incredulous face rather than whatever lurked outside.

“What in blue blazes?” Underwood’s about to unleash his annoyance (and it is more like an amusement, an antidote to the Russian situation, a clusterfuck he loathed to contemplate), but his mouth snaps shut when he sees the look of abject fear in his dear Edward’s eyes.

“Sir, may I use your bathroom?” Edward chokes, carefully avoiding his lover’s eyes.

“Jesus, son! Yes, by all means…” Francis isn’t able to say any more before watching Edward’s back through the rapidly shutting door.

*

Francis Underwood is not a patient man by nature; rather, he’s exercised his will, curbed his quick anger as best he can, sought to master the need to strike out rather than wait in the shadows for better opportunities. Not that he’s hoping for anything more than to answer the question plaguing him for the better part of an hour, time spent waiting for Edward Meechum to exit the Presidential restroom (which is not merely a place for hygienic practices; it’s got a well-stocked bookshelf and all of the latest magazines, a full-length mirror and excellent lighting for examining oneself for lint and other wardrobe malfunctions and, finally, a very, very comfortable full length leather couch where Francis could put his feet up, sight unseen. All he needs, he thinks, is my Xbox 360 and I’ll never have to leave.

Francis doesn’t hear anything in there other than what might be a series of soft, hitching sobs. He knocks gently on the door.

“Edward? May I come in?”

A soft, muffled “Yes, Sir,” answers that question and Francis carefully walks in. Edward’s sitting on the sofa. His face is a blotchy red, stained with tears. Francis locks the door behind him, rushing to Edward’s side. “Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his hand gingerly stroking the graceful line of Edward’s shoulder.

“Oh, Sir,” Edward whimpers, leaning into Francis’s warmth. “It’s awful!”


	2. Chapter 2

Underwood knows Edward well enough to understand that whatever the problem is it isn’t a threat to himself or Claire; Edward would have been forthright about anything that might harm his two beloved charges, of that the President is certain. So, who or what was hurting Edward Meechum? Francis felt a welling of anger that would have frightened a normal man, but let’s admit that Francis is far from average.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, now rocking Edward, who reflexively burrows against the warm bulk of Francis’s chest. There’s nothing but an almost noiseless sob, a wracking of shoulders to answer Francis, who keeps rocking, now softly singing the first thing that comes to mind: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

He’s through the second verse when a brisk knock on the bathroom’s door startles them both from their cocoon.

“Just a minute,” growls Francis.

Another knock.

“Just a minute, please,” he snaps, his angry stance suddenly deflating when he hears the voice on the other side.

“Sir, it’s me. Nancy.”

“Shall I let her in?” Edward nods, leaving a trail of tears and mucus upon the lapel of the President’s smart suit.

“Come in.” She stares, hand against mouth, not in disgust but with a look of tender pity before she rushes to their side.

“Ed?”

He struggles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m okay now.”

Neither Francis nor Nancy believes him.

Edward falters, struggling to bare his injured soul. “It was Representative Birch,” he says simply, not seeing the looks of recognition, of anger that graces both the President and his honorable secretary. Birch, who liked to expose his enormous cock at every chance – what had he done to poor Edward, as if that wasn’t enough?

“He’s here all the time,” Edward continued, now clutching Nancy’s supportive hand. “Whenever I use the…facilities… he’s there, pulling out his dick.” Edward blushes. “Pardon me, ma’m.”

Nancy laughs, low and sweet. “Ed, I’ve heard it all.”

Edward nods.  “I tried changing my schedule but he’s there, staring at me. And then, last time, he moved closer, told me you were going to get tired of me, Sir. That he’d be waiting in the wings to make me his pet.”

“Jesus!” snaps Underwood, barely holding still as not to upset Edward any further. His rage boils and he longs to take hold of the nearest lamp or spindly side table and dash it to pieces.

“Birch reached out to touch me. Sir, it was like Major Doyle all over again.”

Now Francis does stand up, he can’t help it.

“Are you angry, Sir?” whimpers Edward, cringing against Nancy, now.

“Angry? I’m _**livid**_!” growls the President, finally giving into temptation and smashing a ceramic ashtray in the shape of Marilyn Monroe, a souvenir from President Kennedy’s sadly truncated term of duty.

“I’m so sorry,” Edward cries, folding into a fetal position. “What? Oh, Jesus, Edward, no! Honey, I’m not mad at you,” Francis nearly sobs, hurrying to Edward, lifting the distraught man’s head and plastering it with a dozen small kisses.

Nancy.

Shit.

She has the manners to blush but stays her ground, still stroking the quieting victim’s long, smooth back. “Sir, Ed is like a little brother to me. He’s told me about what happened to him and Sam in Iraq, the rapes. I care about him as much as I care about you and Mrs. Underwood and when you love someone, you notice…things. As long as the three of you are happy.”

“You won’t say anything?” Edward quavers.

“Not a word,” Nancy promises, to Edward and to Francis, both and there’s nothing Francis can do to stop from kissing her cheek with gratitude. He takes out his phone. “Claire? Nancy is going to walk Edward to the Residence. He’s had a bit of a shock.” Francis nods at as he’s listening. “Yes, you do that. I’ll be there in just a bit. I’ve got some business to attend to first.”

His eyes are grim, flinty and as sharp as an eagle’s but his voice is soft and kind as he helps Nancy get Edward to his feet.

“Please get Bob Birch on the line before you two go,” he commands, tipping up to give Edward an unapologetic kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

Nancy’s back in time to escort Speaker of the House Birch into the Oval Office, winking solemnly at President Underwood behind Birch’s back. The Speaker strolls towards the chairs facing the President’s desk, chooses on and slides languidly into place, his face unfettered and stupid.

_He doesn’t know what’s coming, smug prick!_

Underwood rises from his seat as gracefully as a shark leaping out of the waves to snatch and kill a harbor seal. Birch being the seal though he doesn’t know it yet, the undisciplined shit.

“Oh? Did I give you permission to sit?”

There’s no mistaking the steel in the President’s voice and Birch’s insipid smile falters. “Frank?”

Underwood doesn’t answer, not right away. First, he touches a leather box about the size of a book, spinning leisurely before roaring back at his latest foe.

“Address me with respect to my Office or so help me I’ll throw you out on your ear.”

Birch blanches.

“I received this just after taking office, a gift from a Civil War reenactor, a young man who plays the role of my great-great grandfather. It’s not the one my forebear carried but close enough; a sweet gesture, don’t you think?”

Francis slides the razor through the air in slow arches, all the while tapping his Sentinel ring against the leather blotter on his desk; tap, tap, tap, tap. It’s amusing, watching Birch’s face drain of color, droplets of sweat forming with each beat.

“You’ve taken liberties with my property,” the President announces in a cool, steady voice that is so much more effective than a rant or shout.

“W….what? What do you mean, Mr. President, Sir?” stammers Birch, stepping back now that Underwood is moving closer, nearly close enough to strike.

“Of course, people aren’t owned any more thanks to my illustrious predecessor, Mr. Lincoln,” Francis continues, as steadily as a seasoned lecturer. “Nonetheless, Edward Meechum belongs to me and my wife and I will not stand for the likes of you and your particular form of vile interference. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes Sir!” gasps the Speaker. Francis smiles, a smile that will haunt Birch’s dreams until his deathbed, three years hence.

“Oh, I don’t think you do, Bob. You’d look a lot more concerned if you did understand so let me clarify things. If you pull out that monstrous cock of yours again in front of _anyone_ , I’ll cut it off with this razor and jam it down your throat so that I can watch you choke to death. Or perhaps you’ll bleed out first. Either way, it’s a win-win for me and mine.”

“Y…you, you can’t threaten me like this,” gasps Birch, stumbling to the lovely dark carpet, an equally dark spot forming at damply at the juncture of his thighs.

“Oh, but you see, I have,” President Underwood replies, folding the razor and placing it back into its case as Birch scrambles out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Edward is asleep the Presidential Suite’s fine bed or so it seems; his eyes are closed.

Edward is resting above the comforter, not below as though he thinks he’s not allowed.

Nonsense.

There’s no sign of Claire at all as Francis steps out of his own shoes and pads towards the bed, shrugging off his jacket and unwinding his tie. His dress shirt follows; belt and wristwatch next. Francis slides down beside Edward wearing trousers and undershirt; he turns on his side to face his lover. Francis bends forward to rest his head next to Edward’s, coaxing his lover’s eyes open with a soft kiss to the side of Edward’s mouth.

“I’m back,” whispers the President, pushing back the hair that’s flat against Edward’s forehead, damp with perspiration. What Birch had done…Francis wishes he had given Birch the punishment he deserved, flashing with anger at the toll the bathroom incident had taken on sweet Edward.

Edward stirs, eyes blinking. “Hello.”

Francis smiles. “Where’s Claire?”

“She had a fundraiser tonight. She stayed as long as she could. She listened. She…understands.”

Nodding, Francis kisses Edward’s brow. “She does, doesn’t she.”

He looks up and down Edward’s deceptively slender body. .

“You’re still dressed,” wonders Edward.

Francis smiles grimly. “I, well, I thought perhaps you’d seen enough dicks today…”

Edward snorts. “I like _yours_.”

Francis's smile grows warmer, unabashed. “Well thank you, honey.”

The Secret Service Agent ducks his head, blushing, unsuccessfully holding back a tiny giggle.

“What?” asks Francis, fully versed now in his companion’s quirky sense of humor.

“The Presidential Penis,” laughs Edward and Francis laughs, too, sides heaving as they pull flush against each other in the center of the bed.

“Democratic Dick,” adds Francis after a minute’s consideration and they are laughing even more until Edward grows solemn again.

“What happened with Birch?” Edward looks worried and Francis longs to follow through with his threat. How satisfying it would feel to slice off Birch’s oversized cock, to watch him bleed… Francis shudders.

“I took care of him.”

“How?” Edward presses, still fretting.

“I’d rather not say,” admits Francis.

“ _Francis_.”

“I toldhim that you belong to me. And then I showed him that straight razor from Spotsylvania. I may have made a suggestion about how it could be employed if he bothers you again.”

“That works,” admires Edward.

“I’d do it, too,” Francis adds unnecessarily; Edward’s seen enough of Francis’s ruthless pragmatism so as not to doubt the President’s willingness to protect his own. And Edward must be pleased because he’s sliding off his boxers and coaxing his hand along the hardening length of his cock.

Quite pleased.

Francis lifts his hips while unbuttoning his trousers, sliding them down along with his shorts. Undershirt, next, until they are alike in their nakedness. Francis is hard. But before they begin there’s something he must say.

“Edward, I want to tell you that you mean so much to me, so very, very much. And because of the ways things are there’s always going to be an imbalance of power between us but I’d like to at least attempt to correct that.”

Edward shrugs. “How do you mean?”

“I want you to fuck me,” is the President’s unvarnished answer.

“Oh!” gasps Edward, touching Francis’s belly with reverent hands, stroking down further when there are soft sighs of approval, until his finger traces beneath Francis’s sack. “I can do that.”

“Mind you, I haven’t done this in years. Not since Tim…”

“Really?”

“Well, sometimes Claire…with her fist…” Francis pauses, staring at Edward greedily. “I’d love to see her inside you, Edward.”

“Yeah,” moans Edward jerkily, reaching for the lube that’s kept in the bedside table. “Hey?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’ll have to help me. I’ve never…not _there_ , I mean.”

“We’ll take our time, then. And we’ll try it again, if it suits you,” replies Francis, completely confident in the Agent’s intentions to please.

“Yes, Sir,” Edward breaths against Francis’s knee, the tip of his index finger slick and poised at the President’s entrance.

*

Claire returns near dawn.  Her husband and Edward are curled together, like a pair of exhausted puppies.  She undresses, slipping against Francis's back, her arm draped over to touch Edward, too, as she joins their repose.  


End file.
